This weekend I relapsed. This weekend I found myself.
To make this a long story- seven months ago something happened to me. I repressed the absolute fuck out of that incident, that memory. I wrote one blog post about it, and it was a cry for help. I then repressed it. I dove into the chaos that seems to follow me every summer. I distracted myself.
Then this weekend happened. I let someone know what occurred. A phone call happened, and I started thinking about what happened. I don’t want to call it anything, or label it. Labeling it means labeling me. It means that I have more to think about and I would rather not deal with the panic attacks that occur with that. I will just say ‘it happened’.
So. It happened. And four people knew. Me, my two best friends, and him. Seven months pass. I am thoroughly distracted with two, almost three jobs. I move in to my first adult apartment, and I am happy. I have my best girls in the world, my boys next door and I am busy but so happy.
Well, maybe not happy. I had bad days, really bad ones. I took a mental health test (see previous post) because I felt so bad. I can’t even describe it- my mood was fluctuating and I was just drowning trying to get out.
So this weekend. It’s high tension within the apartments. My friends birthday was Saturday, and he wanted to go hiking. Although we left one of our friends behind, I did have a good time. But I got a surprise: an old, special friend got in touch with me.
I snapchatted him the whole day, while I came home early from the hike to hit up our big home football game. I had a great time with new friends, then had a decent dinner with old.
I send my friend my medium account, because he’s a writer and I write? I don’t know, I felt good talking to him again and I wanted him to read what I wrote, because I thought that he would have liked the site. I knew he was going to read the post, but I didn’t honestly think about it.
So, he reads it and he calls me. I was still living in my bubble of safety, where I repressed what had actually happened. I started talking about it, and listening to him tell me I was okay, I didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t know it got to me.
I started thinking about my swirling head, and his hands on me (familiar but not), and me saying no and him not listening.
So. I’m thinking about the logistics of what actually happened to me, I am reading a blog post from him about how he absolutely despises me and it’s all to much and I’m alone and I’m crying and it’s getting hard to breathe and I haven’t done it in a while but I take my nails and I just dig in.
My eyes are shut and I can feel some pain but I deserve it, right? (wrong)
After a few minutes of numb pain, I stop. I’m scared. I call my person. He’s not home but he talks me down, tells me I’m okay and that he’s a fucking idiot. I send him a picture of what I did.
He demanded I get someone with me. It hasn’t happened in a while, but there are raised, angry white and red marks all over my arm and they hurt to touch.
I hurt myself.
One by one my roommates filter in and they rally around me, laying in bed and making me laugh and making me whole again.
While I am coming down from my panic attack, I’m texting my friend. He’s demanding I read an excerpt from his novel where he describes a girl based on me. I read it and I cry again. I’m used to reading about hate and betrayal and negativity. This is the opposite.
We spiral into a conversation where we write back and forth to each other- and the night ends with butterflies in my stomach and a safe feeling around me.
The rest of the weekend, I am texting him. I feel warm, and safe and happy for some reason. I smile constantly- my roommates scream at me asking why the hell would I see the boys I did when I had him waiting (I couldn’t tell you even now…). I’m nervous and scared but happy and safe. My arm hurts and I am afraid to wear short sleeves. My friends rally around me.
So I email them. I send them the post because I love them more than anything and I think they deserve to know the trigger. And they rally so fucking hard.
The weekend is over. So much happened. I became closer than ever to my roommates. I have a new adventure, one the size of a hurricane. They know everything. I still am struggling to place what happened. I feel scared because I don’t want to face what happened (didn’t happen?) to me. I feel nervous about what is going to happen in my future. But I am also excited. I have a new motivation to get my anxiety under control. I feel closer to my friends, and they know. They know what happened.